


(never) glide on melting snow

by woodworms_before_breakfast



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst, Christmas, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Magic Revealed, Skiing, actually to be slightly more accurate, dude how is that not a tag already, hope the story is less chaotic than these tags but ahaha chances are slim, still a bit unfamiliar with ao3 but basically other than the first 3 characters mentioned there, the rest are all mentioned or adapted somehow so idk how to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:28:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28173957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodworms_before_breakfast/pseuds/woodworms_before_breakfast
Summary: (Modern AU)On the slope of the mountain, in the little clearing, Merlin had hoped the newest chapter of his life could begin, with the man he loved and with the secret he would no longer have to carry.But it seemed he still had a while longer to wait.***I didn't rate this but there are 1-2 curse words here, brief violence - nothing graphic, all very mild, I didn't feel it was enough to warrant an Archive Warning***
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26
Collections: Round Table Gift Exchange 2020





	(never) glide on melting snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snowy_Cas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowy_Cas/gifts).



The mountains were purple, and so were his cheeks. They were different purples, though — a royal, silky periwinkle for the snow-capped peaks and a bruise-colored blush of greenish purple for his frosty cheeks. His breath formed grey clouds that floated up before his eyes, hoping to join their brothers in the sky. Black tendrils, like fingers of the night, groped from their now-leafless prisons upon the ground at the emerging stars, who blinked awake from their silent reverie. From this altitude, if he squinted hard enough, he could almost trace hints of blue among the silver sky.

He rubbed his chin through the thick, black gloves that shielded his fingers from the merciless cold. _How strange it is_ , he thought, _the way your senses are numbed when you have something you need to do_. A jolt of pain brought his attention to his ankles, where the boot tongue had begun biting into his skin. He crouched down to loosen the straps and adjust his footing on the skis.

“ _Merlin!_ ”

He closed his eyes and smiled before turning around to greet the pair of angry blue flames glaring daggers into his head. The tousled nest of hair was a dull yellow under the shadowed evening light, and Merlin was glad for it; its usual golden hue was far too blinding, and his eyes gratefully drank in the softer flaxen shade he now beheld.

“Long time no see, Arthur,” he said, smearing a smirk over his face to cover the smitten smile that he was sure would be bared to the world if he wasn’t careful.

“I wasn’t _that_ long,” Arthur insisted, slamming his poles into the snow. “And besides, we were supposed to ski this run _together._ No one could keep up with you at that speed, you stoat.”

“Stoats are in fact rather slow,” Merlin hummed, eyes wandering back to the distant purple peaks, “relative to humans.”

***

“So, in honor of Jesus Christ.” Arthur lifted his thermos in mock celebration and smirked at Merlin through his fleece mask. Merlin returned the favor.

Hardly a minute of silent sipping had passed before Arthur spoke again.

“Would you like to tell me the surprise now?”

The wind died down, pressing its ear against the door to eavesdrop on them. A hush swept over the chirping woods that enveloped their little clearing, as though the moon had lifted her silver finger and given the mountains below her best librarian glare.

“Not really.” Anything to delay the inevitable.

Arthur shoved him, chuckling softly. “Come on,” he said, and there was a hint of — what was it? Concern? Impatience? — in his voice. “You’ve been going on about it for weeks.”

“I have _not_ ,” Merlin protested firmly. He knew that for a fact, because a strange pain had struck his chest whenever he even thought of bringing up what he had to now, and so he had avoided the topic at all costs. Speaking of, he would do just about anything to fall over the cliff ahead without Arthur noticing; instead, he decided on changing the subject. “Not like you, prattling on for months about your _incredible surprise_ , which, by the way, a metal circle is far from incredible.”

Arthur scoffed. “ _Sigil_ , Merlin. I’ll have you know that that gift took careful planning and consideration.” Banter flowed from his words, but Merlin noticed the slight strain in his voice and felt a frisson of guilt for the hurt he could just barely detect.

“Thank you,” he said, as gently as he could with the thunderous dread roaring in his ears.

“Yeah, well.”

***

“Figure we should head back down now?”

The sky had lost all traces of violet and become a solid sheet of truffle-black. Now wide awake and without clouds to blanket them, the stars laughed and chattered among their private soirée in the heavens.

Merlin inhaled through his nose, savoring the cold that seeped into his throat. “Not yet.” He turned to Arthur and bit his lip so hard that a salty drop trickled across his tongue.

Arthur’s eyes widened in delight. “Ah yes! Your surprise. Jesus, I’d almost forgotten — hurry _up_ and say it, will you.”

“I…” The words taunted him, dancing a ghoulish jig in the back of his throat as they forced misery and honesty and thousands of other sweet, terrible things into his mouth, all screaming to be let out. He must have allowed this jumbling array of confusion to weave itself into his face, because a stray strand of apprehension settled into Arthur’s eyes.

“What is it, Merlin?” His smile wavered, and Merlin sighed. _Who had given him this right? Who was he to wipe the smile off that golden face and store it in his rag of dirty words?_ “I won’t say you’re scaring me, because I don’t think that’s physically possible, but I’d rather you just- just tell me what’s wrong, Merlin.”

Who had pulled a boy from a fishing village, with nothing more than piers and dusty arcades to bring the “Welcome” signs any merit, and thrown him into the ring to face a prince? Had they foreseen that both would throw their boxing gloves into the crowd, sit down side-by-side, and become the best of friends? Had they noticed when the boy from the fishing village began flushing and beaming at every touch he shared with the prince, when the friendly twinkle in his eye grew into besotted stars? What if-

“ _Merlin_.”

_So long, dear prince._ (He wasn’t fool enough to call the prince his own.)

A flash of gold. The crunch of snow.

Screaming. Sobbing.

Silence.

* * *

It didn’t seem right to ski when the sun was so bright. It felt like the sky had gotten the season wrong, like it had looked down at the weary people and decided it was summer. The cerulean skies swathed the mountains in phony shades of color, masking the winter clouds that were sure to thunder over the horizon within a few hours. Something about the daylight repulsed him, drove him off the slopes, as though gliding over melting snow were a crime.

And so he huddled in the corner booth of the base lounge, sipping marshmallows and peppermint cocoa. Every once in a while, he set the green mug down and stirred with a cinnamon stick.

His eyes never left the slopes. For the first hour, he’d traced the Heavenfall Lift to the cluster of Green and Blue trails midway up the mountain where most of the skiers congregated — the parents who had been bringing their children here for six Christmases in a row; the varsity teams who shoved each other around, spitting challenges to race to the nearest tree and gather a headful of splinters while they were at it; the resort’s coaches who, as they watched five-year-old’s refusing to grasp the concept of holding their skis parallel and not pizza-shaped, wished fervently and nostalgically that they’d put their skills to better use than one-week-a-year lecturing. Those trails presented a strict dividing line among visitors: you either embraced them and spent the entire time there or avoided them entirely.

Those who chose the latter took a different route than the Heavenfall. Instead, they fled the bustling mid-mountain urban scene and rode the Transtempo gondola all the way to the summit, where return to base was barred exclusively by Diamonds and Double Diamonds and off-piste terrain.

The skiers found there were a far more quiet crowd: adventurers who, for seventy years, had never had room in their hearts for anyone other than the mountains; former champions flying down the slopes as much for practice as for the media coverage they were bound to get with the GoPros attached to their helmets; and, his favorite to watch, couples who spent their anniversaries on the slopes and flirted on the moguls for a few rounds before giving into desire and escorting each other into the woods to find some little clearing or another.

One such clearing, he knew, could be found on the western face of the mountain, accessible only by Sceaft, the hardest run that the resort offered.

The clearing faced the distant purple mountains in every direction, except behind.

***

When he was fourteen years old, he had gotten into a fight. The fucker had gone on and on about _you freak_ and _gay ass monster_ until Merlin had decided it was quite enough — if not for his dignity, then at least for his poor ears, which, despite their considerable size, couldn’t really tolerate such a long, torturous ramble at the high frequency of a prepubescent boy. If only to stymie the nauseating flow of words, Merlin had thrown his first punch, landing a swift blow on the offending jaw.

Of course, with his constitution, he couldn’t really have expected any good news from there. To be honest, if it hadn’t been for Lance’s diplomatic smile (and Will’s slightly less diplomatic fists), Hunith would have found herself facing a future with half a son.

The bigot did have a name — albeit one that was thereafter changed to Snakes by most of the town, for which Merlin felt equal parts grateful and guilty — and it was Val. Big brute of a teenager with perpetually narrowed eyes and an abysmally hooked nose. (Hooked even more abysmally after being connected with Will’s knuckles.)

Merlin had made one promise to himself then. Bullies, in any shape or form, were off-limits.

He’d resorted to pining after every new friend who flashed him a grin or a wink — Will and Lance and, eventually, Gwaine as well (perhaps he’d had a type) — until he learned it wasn’t love so much as adolescent hormones driving his ridiculous attempts at flirting.

Being so impressively self-taught in romance, he’d of course heard of aggressive, dominant personalities undergoing personal metamorphoses that spanned weeks at most and endeared them to those who appreciated “character growth” of even the smallest degrees. They were rendered faultless because of how much they’d _changed_.

One bully too many, however, had disillusioned Merlin of any such notions. Instead, he focused all his attention on kind, loyal brunettes with bright eyes and cheeky humor that often gave them an air of inebriation.

Trouble is, the fact that he’d reportedly figured out his “type” and his peeves made it so much more confusing when he started to fall for the very antithesis of all his principles.

Arthur Pendragon.

***

Despite the radiators lining the walls of the café, a grand fireplace had been plunged into the center of the sitting area like a mortar and pestle, grinding what would have been a cozy ambience into the stifling heat of summer. Merlin plucked uncomfortably at his bandana (“Use a ski mask, _Mer_ lin, you’re going to catch a cold wearing those stupid bandanas”) and stuffed another spoonful of chowder and chunk of cornbread into his mouth.

Mid-mountain lodges weren’t known for culinary extravagance, but with the adrenaline of afternoon runs translating into dull aches, he was glad to have a hot bowl to wrap his numb fingers around. He’d been lucky enough to find an entire bench for himself and took advantage of the fact with great satisfaction. The passing customers wrinkled their nose as he rubbed his calves and peeled off the wet socks.

The view was different from the middle of the mountain than from the base. Not extremely, because the snow still blinded your eyes from every direction thanks to the resort’s affinity for floor-to-ceiling windows, but the mood was different. The air in the mid-mountain café was charged with excitement and fatigue and contentment and dread. Sweat lingered between the hanging lamps, riding on dust as it permeated the room.

Every sip of chowder burned his tongue and watered his eyes. Merlin rubbed his stubble between two fingers, his mouth numb, his eyes unseeing.

_Get away from me!_

_Why didn’t you tell me?_

_What_ are _you?_

The year-old memory was loud and untarnished in his mind as he sat in the café, drowning out the prattle of the crowd around him. He’d spent the morning navigating Sceaft, looping back and forth as he tried to decide whether or not to go back to that clearing.

He left the resort the next day. He’d gotten close to the clearing, really close, but he hadn’t had the courage to leave Sceaft.

* * *

Bluegrass was emanating gently from the speakers, soaking the bar in a bittersweet ambience that tasted of shandy and peanuts. No one was actually listening to the music, but its lyrics struck the room somehow, filling each booth with the same yearning for home and for family that the singer suffered. Dishes and forks clattered from every table in the room, though the underlying blanket of cheery conversation was never completely submerged. Only a holiday mood could cast this golden glow over a bar, a glow that had little to do with the fairy-lights and wreaths strung over the counter and far more to do with blushing cheeks and cold hands warmed by familiar touches.

For a moment, he could almost imagine that this was the same bar as the one in August, with the rainbow-beaded “Open” sign and the feathery bossa nova stereo. The food had been substantially more edible, and he had been halfway through his butter cake, grateful for the way the crumbs seemed to begin to heal the wounds in his chest, when the door had chirruped open and-

A cheerful voice brought him back to the present. “Jesus, Merlin,” Gwaine said, popping a peanut into his mouth. “The way you’ve gone on about him, you’d think you killed him.”

Merlin bit his lip. “I might as well have.”

“Merlin.” Gwaine’s voice was softer (and yet harder) than Merlin had ever heard it. “Don’t. Don’t do that thing where you blame yourself for everything.”

“It’s not just that,” Merlin protested. “Of course I still can’t- I’ll blame myself for a long time, Gwaine, and I don’t think you can change that. But hell, he never told me he was… D’you think it was easy, seeing him walk in the door with another man and- and they just-”

The country song became aggravated and sharp; it sounded like whoever was playing the banjo was taking out years of frustration on the strings. Merlin closed his eyes and covered Gwaine’s outstretched hand with his.

“I know it was all the way back in August, but it- it hurts, Gwaine. That’s a mild way to put it, I know, but...”

“It’s not mild,” Gwaine said quietly. “I get it. Sometimes fancy words help, get whatever’s stuck in your heart to- to just dislodge itself or something, yeah? But sometimes, you hurt. And it’s as simple as that.”

Merlin nodded. The words circled him, begging him to embrace them and chanting a mantra of hope and camaraderie, but he dismissed them with little more than a smile of acknowledgment.

“And don’t worry about that love life thing you were going on about,” Gwaine continued. “With a face like yours, you’ll never find yourself with a shortage of blokes trying to catch your eye. Believe me, I’d know.”

“Think you’re a catch?”

He winked. “I snatched you for a month, didn’t I?”

“Don’t remind me. And that means _I’m_ a catch.”

“Damn right you are.”

***

Merlin showed Gwaine the clearing. Being the first whom Merlin had ever taken with him to those mountains, he had the privilege to explore the entire terrain and had begged Merlin to show him his favorite route. They stumbled a bit on Sceaft as Gwaine learned every patch of ice, every tuft of grass, every jut of rock on the trail.

When they finally reached the clearing — Merlin discovered that having a friend with him gave him the courage to go back — Gwaine whooped and nearly threw his poles off the mountain. Merlin caught his exuberant grin as he pulled his mask off, and the undeniably contagious joy of _Gwaine_ seemed to lighten up the darkening woods.

“You know, Merlin,” he said as he regained his breath, “I don’t understand why you’re so hung up on it. On _him_.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… Lancelot and me. And Will and Freya and Gwen, Elyan and Percy and Leon. None of us reacted this badly. Even George Brass accepted it, when we were, what, fifteen, after he stumbled in by accident because you left the bathroom door unlocked — still think that was the dumbest thing you’ve ever done, by the way.”

Merlin squawked. “I didn’t leave the door unlocked, I just left the stall door open! I was so excited to practice that new-”

“Yeah well, whatever your excuse,” Gwaine continued, smirking at Merlin’s eye roll. “The point is, haven’t you always known that the ones who react like this- that they’re the ones you should avoid? They’re the ones not worth giving a damn about? They’re the Snakes?”

“Of course.” Merlin paused, wondering how to put his thoughts, his _feelings_ into words. “But I think this is different. I think _he’s_ different.”

Gwaine snorted. “Never took you as one for clichés, Merlin.”

They sat on the snow in silence for a while, gazing at the purple mountains in the distance and yet within reach.

***

His two weeks with Gwaine that year, spent more sitting atop the mountains than skiing down them, were the first time he’d enjoyed himself in two years. Gwaine had the uncanny ability to embody any of their friends when Merlin needed it, carrying Lancelot’s strength and Gwen’s empathy and Freya’s gentleness all within him. Merlin often suspected him of badgering their friends until he learned the entire plethora of unique characters among them, purely so that he could spend a week alone with Merlin without feeling the absence of sufficient comfort.

Christmas was a small endeavor, the pair of them nearly passed out, lying spread-eagled on the beds in the hotel room with an arc of Budweisers worshipping them, cult-like, on the floor.

It was two days before they had to leave the resort and head back to the city — Elena and Mithian spent months that year planning the New Year’s party and would have slaughtered them in their sleep if they missed out. Finna, the librarian whom Merlin had befriended during the summer the year before, had nearly murdered him herself when he’d missed her party last year.

At the moment, it felt that he and Gwaine would require at least a dozen centuries before they could pull themselves into a fit enough state to stand up, much less drive. Two days would have to do, though. Anything to escape the combined wrath of Gawant and Nemeth.

Gwaine coughed suddenly, groaning as his head vibrated with the motion. “I know what you did, Merlin.”

“I know what _you_ did, too. You drank too much.”

“No.” Gwaine winced, pinching the bridge of his nose — Merlin’s heart quaked for a moment because the gesture was so _familiar_ , he could picture it with a hooked nose underneath a mop of blonde hair — and lying back down. “I know the conditions you gave Ellie and Mith.”

Merlin squeezed his eyes shut. “For what? The party?”

“Of course the party, what else? Honestly. I don’t think either of us want me to say more than I have to at the moment, so try to pull your last bits of brain together, yeah?”

“Piss off.”

“You made them promise to invite him, didn’t you?”

He wouldn’t answer. He knew no matter if he confirmed or denied it, Gwaine would know. And Gwaine would ask why, and Merlin would have nothing to say in reply.

Because he didn’t know why he’d done it. It didn’t seem logically to be good idea to run into Arthur by happy “coincidence,” perhaps with his new boyfriend — Oswald, was it? To have a name like _that_ in this day and age, although his own name was rather outlandish so he couldn’t exactly talk- and at least Oswald had Arthur and- oh gods it still _hurt_ to think that Arthur was-

“It’s alright, Merlin. Believe it or not, I think it’s a good idea.” Gwaine shifted his position so he could smile at Merlin’s open-mouthed face. “I really do. Either way, it’ll get you closer to closure.”

Merlin thought for a second and realized Gwaine was right. Of course he was — that one was borrowed from Leon. The perpetual _right_ ness.

The chasm in his chest was beginning to rumble and close. He could feel it. There was a part of him, though, that wished something had filled it, rather than having it close on its own.

* * *

The mountains were purple, and they were cold in their loneliness. Their favorite visitor had abandoned them, it seemed, and the other merry faces speeding down their slopes were unwelcome strangers. On the far side of the peaks, there was a hidden little clearing facing the line of ridges in the northeast and a trail that led to this clearing, usually only traversed by the bravest of skiers. Suddenly, without any warning, an old box elder tree gave a great roar and toppled down to block the path so that the trail (and the clearing) would be out of reach for anyone but the favorite young man of the mountains.

* * *

Three hundred and sixty-five days in a year. Fifty-two weeks. Really not that much, if you thought about it.

And Merlin did think about it. As he stood and rejoiced in the bitter wind assaulting his face, eyes closed in silent ecstasy, he thought about the purple mountains and how they’d waited for him, and how twelve months ago he hadn’t been able to bring himself to come to the resort, much less to Sceaft. How drastically twelve months could change your life, but whether how much pain or how much happiness, you couldn’t know.

“ _Merlin!_ ”

He closed his eyes and smiled before turning around. The face of regal exasperation was no less beautiful than the first time he’d fixed his eyes on it, and the affection in his heart must have made its way into his expression, if Arthur’s softening frown was any indication.

“You _still_ haven’t learned to slow down and _wait_ , I see,” Arthur grumbled, although he was clearly grinning by now.

“And you still haven’t learned to keep up,” Merlin said with a cock of his brow.

“Like I said, _Mer_ lin, no one could keep up with you at that speed. Honestly, I know you’re magic and all, but is it really necessary to go quite so freakishly-”

He stuttered, eyes widening before shame flooded their blue depths. Merlin felt something plunge into his stomach — which couldn’t have been his heart, because he was looking at it — and immediately his hands flew to Arthur’s shoulders.

“Stop it.”

“I’m so s-”

“ _Arthur_.”

“Alright. I’ll try.”

***

Blond. Blue-eyed. Irrevocably rude and disdainful of others. If anyone should _not_ have caught Merlin’s eye, it was Arthur Pendragon.

It must have been his sixth sense. Morgana always said (later, when she’d finally warmed up to him) that everyone had a sixth sense, but it was also a different sixth sense for everyone. Merlin’s, it seemed, was an extraordinarily apt judge of character; he found something in Arthur that few, if any, had found before him.

And then he fell in love, and he had a reason to hide his secret — his _gift_ , as his friends called it; his _plague_ , as everyone else did — and it all began crumbling down from there.

He couldn’t quite believe it was over, now. Four years was, of course, a longer wait than he’d hoped, surrendering some of his rationality to a distorted, idealized sense of reality where friends were saint-like in their clemency.

But it was over. And the rest of his life- _their_ lives could begin.

***

He didn’t have to worry about not being special to Arthur. Even if his magic weren’t a miracle that brought wonder into Arthur’s eyes every time his own eyes flashed gold, the very fact that Merlin loved him was enough to make Arthur dote on Merlin with all the eagerness that you would expect from a motherless child with a loveless father.

That didn’t mean their love was easy, though.

The others had hardly forgiven Arthur, the most irate among them being Gwen, Lancelot and Gwaine. Freya and Gil were surprisingly understanding, if only because they’d suffered through similar relationships themselves. Will and Daegal were indifferent, but only because, Merlin suspected, they couldn’t care less about Arthur’s opinion.

People think it’s hard to love someone everybody loves. The truth is, it’s even harder to love someone nobody loves, because you first have to convince them they’re worth it. They are the first beam of moonlight breaking through a stormy night sky, and if nobody else can see it, then the rest of the world are fools.

Arthur apologized to him every morning and every night. He couldn’t quite stop blaming himself, which, of all people, Merlin would understand best. But despite the ugly memories, the four-year-old scars binding them both as they remembered Arthur screaming at Merlin for something he was born with, the two years of _I don’t want to see you_ and _This is Arthur, leave a message_ and _He’ll come around, Merlin, or I’ll beat him up until he does_ -

Despite all that, Merlin reminded him of one simple fact: barring all of his shouting and ignoring and humiliating, Arthur had never once called Merlin any names — not _freak_ nor _monster_ nor anything else that Merlin had become habituated to hearing from viciously curled lips. All of his anger, as both Merlin and Arthur himself knew, had sprung from the betrayal of being lied to.

That didn’t mean, however, that Merlin didn’t use the guilt (sparingly, of course) to extract a round of drinks from Arthur every time they spent the evening at a bar.

***

The mountains were purple, but with the sun rising in the east, they seemed to blush in patches of rose and gold here and there. He’d never realized before, but even amidst the familiar quiet of the forest on this lonely side of the mountain, he could hear the faint echoes of city laughter reverberating from the valley in the south. As a gentle wind tugged at a branch overhead, a flurry of snowflakes drizzled into his open palms, and Merlin couldn’t help it.

He whispered in an ancient tongue, feeling the sibilant word float in his mouth and fill it with something foreign, or else something familiar. The flakes leapt gratefully into the air, the same clear notes of freedom and natural beauty within their silver whirlpool as the symphony that filled Merlin’s chest. When they had finished assembling in mid-air, Merlin fell back on his elbows and admired his handiwork: a dual-colored coat of arms, one half a golden lion, the other a silver dragon. He smiled, rather bewildered as he wondered where this had come from.

A gasp to his left jolted his concentration, and the crest scattered on the snow, leaving traces of glowing silver and gold in the clearing.

“Arthur,” he chastised, turning to scowl fondly at the awed face, only half-awake and still half-buried under a crumpled ski mask.

“Beautiful.” Arthur’s voice was hoarse and ragged, but Merlin heard it. “That was…”

Merlin chuckled, swallowing the strange swell of memory and hope corralling in his throat. (Was that even possible? To feel nostalgic for an experience you’ve never had? An experience you wouldn’t even recognize?) He winked at Arthur. “You like shiny things, then?”

“Shut up,” came the answer, accompanied by a signature eye roll. “Which one was me, then?”

Merlin beamed at him and threaded their gloved fingers together. Arthur huffed a laugh and leaned his cheek against Merlin’s hair. They stayed there, still as stones, for a minute or for a year, and then Merlin spoke.

“You know, it’s quite illegal for us to be up here at this hour. Can’t believe we fell asleep in the snow, and now we’ve no breakfast — we could die, you know.”

“No, we really couldn’t,” Arthur said, reaching over to grab his pack and pulling out coffee and paper-wrapped cakes.

They stared at each other for a minute before Merlin broke into a grin and drew a quiet laugh from Arthur. Breakfast was quickly assembled and shared as they watched the sun paint in sparkling strokes on the snowy mountains. “I suppose,” he said between mouthfuls, “that as we’ve got breakfast here and all, there’s no need to go down right away.” He twisted around to survey Arthur’s serene face. “It’s a bit too hot to test the snow, anyway.”

“What do I always say, Merlin?” Arthur said, smirking over the rim of his thermos. “Never ski on melting snow.”

~end~

**Author's Note:**

> Sceaft means “destiny” in Old English


End file.
